But a biddable girl. Anna was still holding her cigarette between her fingers. She didn’t trust Gianfrancesco, you know, she called him a ‘bad husband’. Pray, walk in. She would come back and write letters, carefully planned and written letters, or read some book she had fetched from Mudie’s—she had invested a half-guinea with Mudie’s—or sit over her fire and think. Finally she fell into reflection. I don't ask you to supply my place—for that is, perhaps, impossible. On a stool eight feet high sat a small boy in a faded blue cotton, his face like that of young Buddha. Rank ingratitude, I call it.
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